The Lady and the Gent (London League, Book 1)

by Rebecca Connolly

  “He is,” Margaret insisted, pushing off of her cousin and moving to the window. “Whether he is in truth or not, to me, he might as well be dead.”

  Helen came to her and took her hand, dabbing at her own eyes. “Tell me about him, Margaret. Please. He sent me a note that told me you were in trouble, which is why I sent Tibby to see what Ritson was up to. He trusted me without ever knowing me, and he loved you with a passion that I did not believe any Englishman possessed. He deserves to be more than a name to us.”

  Margaret sniffed and smiled up at the ceiling, letting the morning light from the window warm her. “He was. Oh, he was.”

  Helen pulled her to the sofa and listened while Margaret told her all of the details that she had left out of every story, even the ones she had told to herself. She never said his real name, that was still hers alone, but everything else about him, she shared.

  And it did not hurt as much as she thought it would.

  But later that night, alone in her room, it hurt quite a good deal.

  The Smithfields were not exactly intolerable people, but they were a bit tedious, if one were to be perfectly honest. They were fine company, it was true, but all that was required for fine company was decent conversation, respectability, and not desiring to escape.

  And if Lady Smithfield attempted small talk with Margaret one more time, she just might scream.

  She had not wanted to attend, waking up in more pain this morning than she had gone to bed with. Helen had gone home, and was undoubtedly here tonight somewhere, but she would not come to Margaret right away. She knew what torment this would be, and she would be the only one.

  Margaret had begged to stay at home with a headache, but her mother had only brought out her usual remedies for such things, which had always worked in the past, and having them fail now would only increase the attention she received, when all she wanted was the opposite. She wanted to be left alone in her room, or to wander the house as she would. She wanted to wear black and play sad songs on the pianoforte, though she would play them badly. She wanted to think dismal thoughts and not be forced into the world of social gatherings.

  But she could not tell her parents the truth.

  She could not tell them she was in love with the intruder who was not a robber who was a nobody she saw on the street every day. She could not actually mourn a man to whom she had no ties or bindings. She could not turn recluse without raising suspicions.

  So here she was, against the wall, hoping, for the first time, that she would be as invisible tonight as she had been every other night in London.

  She watched the guests milling about, only truly seeing a few.

  Lord Rothchild was there, along with his wife, and Margaret watched them for a long time, catching all of the looks and smiles they gave each other. The way her fingers brushed against his arm as he led her about the room. The way Lord Rothchild’s eyes lingered on his wife long after she’d looked away. The way they stood so close together as though they couldn’t bear to be further apart. They had been married for ages, and to still have that sort of love and passion… It was somehow both painful and beautiful.

  Mr. Pratt was making a splash, as usual, his bright green waistcoat a thing of interest for many, and even Helen, dressed in a radiant white, had been seen taking notice. And if Margaret’s observations told any tales, it would certainly tell of the repetition of Mr. Pratt’s gaze straying towards her cousin’s fine figure as she moved past, both in dance and in walk. And if that was a truth, it would also bear the repeating of Helen’s soft smirk, acknowledging what Margaret strongly suspected: she knew he was looking, and she moved for that benefit alone.

  Had that gone on all Season without her seeing it? She’d been so distracted by her own worries and cares that she had missed so many things.

  She saw the way Rosalind lingered at the edge of Captain Riverton’s circle, her back turned towards him, yet somehow the two met eyes more often than seemed possible. Rosalind was softer now, less inclined to bristle, and Captain Riverton spoke with less boisterousness, his smile a little less brash. They had both greeted her already, and fondly at that, which she had reciprocated. But even then, she had felt like an intruder in some private, ongoing conversation.

  The Gerrards came to her and spoke for a bit, but did not linger, as did the Blackmoors. Tibby had not yet arrived, which was a blessing, as her intuition would never let Margaret alone in her present distress. All of the associations she had made while under Tibby’s protection paid their due respects to her, but no one overstayed politeness, for which she was grateful.

  She had a slight reprieve from the monotony when Mr. Pratt came to her, having broken free from his circle.

  He bowed before her. “Miss Easton, that green you wear is most becoming, and compliments my own perfectly. Would you favor me with this dance?”

  Margaret tilted her head, considering the foppish man with a bit of amusement. “I may prove a poor partner, Mr. Pratt. I am not particularly inclined to dance this evening.”

  The smile he offered was surprisingly gentle. “So I see, my dear, but one dance with me just might make you smile, and that is all I seek.”

  Now she did smile, and placed her hand in his. “Oh, very well, Mr. Pratt.”

  He clamped a hand over his heart. “Let the heavens rejoice!”

  Margaret rolled her eyes. “Oh, lord.”

  He chuckled and led her into the line as the music struck up. “I must thank you, Miss Easton, for keeping my little secret.”

  She looked at him sharply, wondering that he should even bring it up. His expression was composed, but she saw a deeper intensity in his eyes. “It’s nothing,” she murmured, a little confused. “I promised I would, and so I shall.”

  He nodded, moving around her for the dance, his steps light and graceful. “A woman of your word, are you?”

  “I try to be, yes,” she replied as she mimicked his motions around him. She took his hand and allowed him to turn her. “Integrity is the key to honor, and I take it seriously.”

  “So you should, my dear.” He parted from her to dance with the woman beside her, and she with her partner.

  When they were reunited, he offered her a boyish grin. “You have not said anything of your secret, Miss Easton.”

  “No, and nor shall I.” She gave him a severe look that only made him smile more. “There is no cause to let anyone have more to speak of when it comes to me.”

  “Truly?” he asked, moving around her once more. “I have only heard the most praiseworthy things of you.”

  She snorted softly as she took her turn. “Then you have not been listening to the right sources. I have it on good authority that a great many things were being said about me that I did not know.”

  He took her hand to lead her down the line, and leaned a little too close. “I never listen to the wrong sources, Miss Easton. I hear everything. And while there may have been some less than pleasant rumors, I can assure you that tonight all of it is behind you.”

  She glanced up at him as they finished their promenade. “How can you be sure?”

  He raised a brow, the dandy expression completely gone. “I never mistake with gossip. And haven’t you wondered why no one was whispering about you? Why everyone is behaving so normally?”

  Margaret had wondered, actually. With everything that Ritson and Sir Vincent had brought about, and with all of the threats of exposure, she was sure that she would be nearly shunned, and yet she had not been. She looked up at Mr. Pratt, her mouth working silently.

  He grinned swiftly and spun her around for the last movement. “Nothing but praises, Miss Easton. No harm done.”

  “How?” she managed to ask.

  “By your own merits,” he assured her.

  She gave him a look, which made him chuckle.

  “Very well, and by the efforts of your friends and mine.” He bowed to her as the music finished. “And I might have said a few things myself. I do consider us the greates
t of friends now, you know.”

  Margaret smirked a little as he led her back to her position by the wall. “Do you? How fortunate for me.”

  “Isn’t it, though?” He winked and bowed once more, leaving her to her thoughts, wishing she felt any sort of attraction to Mr. Pratt or Captain Riverton or any of the men in this room. Oh, she could have married any one of them and had a perfectly acceptable marriage, by all accounts. But after feeling so much for Rafe, she had discovered what she was capable of, and settling for anything less just for convenience would have been a crime.

  Perhaps she could actually fall in love with one of the European men her parents wanted. It was possible, she supposed, but not now, and not for some time. Everything hurt too much. Even watching the dancing now was painful.

  She would have loved to dance with Rafe in public, as she’d once dreamed. To waltz in his arms, to laugh in a quadrille, to see his eyes dance more merrily than his feet… To steal away to secluded corner of the host’s house to embrace freely… To rival the Rothchilds for most enviable couple…

  Margaret closed her eyes, now burning with unshed tears. She could not cry here. She could not make a scene. She exhaled slowly and felt the tears subside, then forced her eyes open, keeping her expression calm and unaffected.

  She could pretend for a while longer.

  “Miss Easton, I have someone for you to meet!” Marianne Gerrard’s cheerful voice chirped near her.

  Margaret tried not to roll her eyes, wishing that her friends with good intentions would be a little less determined. She turned towards the approaching beauty, and bit back a gasp.

  Standing next to Mrs. Gerrard’s resplendent blue ensemble was a tall, perfectly formed man in a pristine set of formal wear. He was clean shaven, tanned, and in possession of a pair of very familiar dark eyes that were now alight with mirth.

  Rafe.

  “My dear Miss Easton, might I introduce Lord Marlowe?” Mrs. Gerrard said, her voice a faint humming in Margaret’s ears. “He is a dear friend of my husband’s, and godfather of my son. He would like to make your acquaintance.”

  Margaret stared at him in shock, her mind whirling. How… how…?

  “A pleasure, Miss Easton,” he intoned gravely. He took her hand and bowed over it, heat from his touch racing up her arm, making her breath catch in her throat.

  “L-lord Marlowe,” she squeaked, her fingers twitching in his hold.

  Rafe’s eyes met hers, and she could see the smile in them, despite his bored expression.

  “Tibby was so angry with him for not coming to her evening,” Mrs. Gerrard was saying beside them. “She wanted you both to meet then, but I suppose meeting now is as good a time as any.”

  “Marianne,” Rafe murmured without looking at her, “do shut up and go away.”

  Margaret’s eyes widened, but Mrs. Gerrard only laughed merrily. “Marlowe, you are the only one in the world who can speak to me like that and not have repercussions. Very well, I will leave you to it. Behave, Marlowe,” she called as she wandered away, her skirts swishing audibly against the floor.

  “Always,” he replied, though Margaret did not believe him for a second.

  She stared at him, afraid to blink. He still held her hand, and tightly, and she replayed the last few moments over and over. Lord Marlowe. Lord. Marlowe. He had a title. He was here.

  He was alive.

  Her chest began to tighten and squeeze, a deep ache forming. Her breathing turned unsteady and a tremor started in her hands.

  A movement behind him caught her eye, and she saw her parents coming over to them, looking interested.

  Rafe didn’t even spare a glance to see what she saw, he only led her out to the dance floor, his steps swift and sure.

  “Say something,” he said softly, squeezing her hand.

  Margaret tried to inhale, but it caught and hiccupped. “You’re here…” she managed, too emotional for their situation at present. “You’re alive?”

  He smiled tenderly, setting his hand on her waist for the waltz, pulling her as close as he could without being scandalous. “Shhh, love. Dance with me for a bit, and we’ll escape when your parents stop watching.”

  She nodded, her eyes filling as she let him move her through the waltz, his motions sure. She had no idea how they moved so gracefully, as she wasn’t aware of moving her feet at all, and she could not look anywhere but at him. Her chest shook and gasping breaths were all she could manage, a tear escaping and coursing down one cheek.

  “Don’t cry,” he said with a laugh. “I’ll never make it if you cry.”

  “You’re alive,” she said, her voice choked with tears. She shook her head, wishing the tears away, but they only rose with a vengeance. “You’re alive.”

  Rafe growled low in his throat and glanced around. “Oh, to hell with it.” He turned her through the other couples, waltzing perfectly towards the back of the room, then ducking with her into a side hallway. He pulled her along quickly, moving almost soundlessly through the house until they reached a small terrace. He closed the doors behind them and turned to face her.

  “Margaret…” he said simply, and she could hear an apology coming.

  She didn’t need one.

  She threw herself into his arms, and he gathered her up, one hand latching around her, the other holding her head against him. “Oh, love, don’t…”

  Margaret sobbed against his chest, shaking with the force of her cries.

  “I hope these aren’t tears of fury,” he teased, pulling her tighter, his lips dancing against her ear. “I can’t bear your tears of any kind, but…”

  “Shut up,” she hiccupped, leaning back. “I thought you were dead! Father went to have you freed, and they said that…” She reached up and took his face in her hands, and pressed her lips to his frantically.

  He gentled the kiss with a murmur, stroking the back of her neck soothingly. Over and over he kissed her, soft, feather-light kisses that reminded her that he was here, and she was in his arms.

  “You’re alive!” she whispered against his lips.

  He groaned softly and pulled back, forcing her to look at him. “Oh, pet, I am so sorry, I wanted to tell you from the start. I work for the government. I’m a spy. You got wrapped up in all of this by sheer bad luck, and I will explain everything soon, but all you need to know is that you are out of danger now. I took care of Castleton and things should be calm for some time. I didn’t want to lie to you, and I won’t anymore, but…”

  “I don’t care,” she interrupted, shaking her head. “I don’t care! You’re here and I’m here and I love you, and if you say yes, I won’t have to move to Europe and marry an ambassador!”

  He reared back, eyes wide. “What? No!”

  “No?” she cried.

  “I mean, yes!” he said at once, shaking his head, then nodding it. “Yes, yes. You’re not marrying anybody but me, I’m not even going to ask.” He kissed her hard, his fingers tangling in her hair.

  “Good,” she sighed with a smile, when he allowed her to break free.

  He stroked her cheek softly. “My Margaret… You really don’t mind? There are details and specifics, and you can never tell anyone…”

  She shrugged, covering his hand with her own. “I don’t mind. I love you, Rafe, and all I have ever wanted is to be with you. I would move heaven and earth to have you, and I felt all of that before I ever knew you had a title.”

  He smiled warmly, his eyes crinkling. “And I wanted you before I ever knew just how extensive your fortune was.”

  She giggled and kissed him again, then pulled back. “Is your name really Rafe?”

  He nodded, folding his arms around her, tucking her against him. “It is. Raphael William Edward Thornton, seventh Lord Marlowe. But most people just call me Marlowe. Or Gent. Depends on the person in particular. Rogue calls me all sorts of things that I will never be able to repeat.”

  Margaret nuzzled against him, sighing. “And what shall I call you, my lord?�
��

  “Yours, my love. Always and forever yours.”

  Epilogue

  She was out in the rain again. It was the silliest thing, she was always doing it, and it was going to get her sick one of these days. She just stood there, head tilting back, breathing in the fresh air and soaking her skin and clothing with the raindrops.

  An artist would have wept at the beauty in the scene, and begged for opportunity to capture it onto canvas.

  But there were no artists here, and certainly no weeping.

  “Helena Thornton, what do you think you are doing?”

  The little dark-haired girl looked coyly over her shoulder and wrinkled her nose up. “Catching raindrops.”

  “Oh? What with?”

  “My face.”

  Rafe chuckled and opened the door further. “Well, you’ve certainly caught enough for today. Come on inside and dry off now.”

  His daughter turned and put her hands on her hips, her brow furrowing in a frown. “You never force Mama to come inside when she does it.”

  “Your mama is a grown woman and I do not force her to do anything.” He waved her in, his expression serious, despite his urge to laugh. “You, however, I can, because I am your father, and it is getting cold.”

  Helena grumbled under her breath and marched towards him.

  He bit back a smile as he took the toweling from the maid and rubbed it through his daughter’s long hair. She crossed her arms, shivering slightly.

  “I told you it was cold,” he teased, moving to wrap the towel around her shoulders.

  “It wasn’t cold until I came inside,” she insisted firmly.

  Rafe sighed a longsuffering sigh, knowing his daughter took after him in many ways, despite looking exactly like her mother. And her uncle Rogue was a horrible influence on her. “Well, we had better sit by the fire then, hadn’t we, poppet?”

  She grinned up at him and nodded.

  He moved over to the large chair by the fire, and laughed when she jumped into his lap, snuggling close. She was almost too big to be doing this, and it would break his heart when she was. At a very precocious eight years old, she was growing more and more independent, with some rather mature moments, and her younger siblings followed her lead in all things.